The First Daughter
by phoeniqx
Summary: Looking at her, you could actually see the resemblance. They weren't related, but Marco guessed Whitebeard grew on her so much, you'd think the only thing lacking was the mustache.
1. Prologue

**THE FIRST DAUGHTER**

**PROLOGUE**

**DISCLAIMER: Eiichiro Oda owns the canon. I own this plot, and the characters that –aren't– canon. So there.**

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><p>Midnight.<p>

Nothing is heard but the gentle rush of the ocean, it waves lapping up against the rocky sides of a cliff. A lone, cavernous castle looms on top, hidden by the thick foliage of the nearby trees. The lights have all been put out, but under the light of the full moon, lighting isn't really necessary.

A lone figure sits by the balcony of a particularly tall tower. Stray strands of hair dance gaily in the sea breeze, completely oblivious to the heavy, depressing atmosphere. Why should it? 'Tis the cruel nature of things: The real world moves on, even if you think yours has stopped. Even if you think yours has crumbled.

Even if you think yours has turned into dust, swallowed by nothingness.

"Halcyonné."

Steps echo in the night, adding to the chorus of rustling leaves and whistling winds. A tall, cloaked man steps forward, his face half hidden in shadow. Long, dark hair streams down his head, his shoulders, his back. The figure sitting on the balcony ledge does not move, makes no indication that it heard its name being called. For that figure, there was only silence. Deafening, unending silence… to never again be broken by the sound of his voice… his laughter…

Monkey D. Dragon knew this.

He steps forward, joining the other figure by the balcony, though not going as far as sitting on the railings. Instead he stands behind the figure, silent, unmoving. No words are needed from him. It isn't his voice that needs to be heard, much less his words. Only one person can break the silence, and unfortunately that person isn't here. The best Dragon can do is wait, in silence, and mourn in it, too. And listen.

An owl hoots morosely from a nearby tree.

"I can't leave, you know." The figure finally says with a voice tight and hoarse with emotion. "It wouldn't be right."

"How so?" Dragon replies quietly, his deep knowledgeable eyes searching into half of the other person's face—the half that was exposed in brilliant moonlight. "Granted, you are not exactly replaceable—no one is. But then again, we will cope, and it's not like you're going away forever." He tilts his head ever so slightly. "The Rebellion is selfish, but not so much as to hold you back from the important things in your life."

The silence is broken, but by a humorless snort. A smirk graces Dragon's lips—after all, any reaction is better than no reaction at all.

"What about you, Dragon?" the figure asks. "Your son. You gave up your life with him for this. Compared to that, my problem is trivial. Insignificant, even. It's not important."

"But it is," the leader replies patiently. "I cannot deny that the Rebellion is selfish. Its needs must be met. But I also know my son will benefit from this. And I haven't exactly abandoned him, either. Leaving Luffy with Garp was the best thing for him. Had I brought him here with me, to build him up for a war he does not fully understand… that would be as good as sending him to battle with no bullets, no gun." He looks away, again, to that same direction where East Blue lies. "It would be nice, if he fought with the same ideals that the Rebellion has. But it would be better, if he completely understood them, and fought _for_ them." He turns back to the figure now. "Your situation, however, is different."

"How so?" The figure asks, the tone teasing, playful, playing Dragon's words back to him. "We both had the same event: an abandonment situation in our lives, which marked the turning point of everything. They happened for the same reason: the abandoners left for the greater benefit of the abandonee. The only difference is that you were the abandoner, while I was the abandonee. "

The ghost of a smile tugs on Dragon's lips. "But Luffy is alive." He says simply, and in that moment, he knew that was all it takes for the figure to realize just how different their situations were. He continues on, however, to fully drive the point home. "If Luffy died—which I am thankful he didn't, and hope that he won't anytime soon—I'd take a leave of absence. Immediately." He stared intently at the figure. "It would be the right thing to do. I'd be paying my respects—as so would you, if you left."

"No," the figure replied immediately, the tone of a stubborn kid inflicted in its words. "He'd roll in his grave, or probably rise from it, to scold me for not doing my job." She smiled a little. "I didn't go with him for it, after all."

"But you _are_ doing it." Dragon insisted now, a smirk gracing his strong features. "In any case, you'd get to see him again, wouldn't you?"

Soft, low chuckles flowed from their lips, before settling down to silence once more. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves, but this time they were gentler. As if the atmosphere of mourning finally kicked in, and was paying its own respects to the scene of mourning that they were in. The wind treaded carefully, as noiselessly as it would, through the trees, through the sea, stirring up objects as gently as its wild nature could allow.

Moonlight filtered through gaps in the clouds, putting a natural spotlight on the earlier, shadowed figure, who sat hunched over on the balcony. It sat straighter and looked up, a contemplative look in its eyes. The hood on its head falling back to reveal long, pale blue tresses, blue-grey eyes, and skin the color of moonlight—and not just because the real thing was shining on her. Her body was thin—more than what was the norm. In fact, she looked anorexic—only the healthy, pink glow on her cheeks said otherwise.

"You are doing your job. You will be, even if you go there." Dragon insisted, looking at her clouded, doubtful eyes. The young woman turned to look at her leader now, for confirmation of this fact. "It's your job as his child to be there for him, isn't it? As much as it is your job as a lieutenant to stay with the Rebellion. But this is one of the few cases that your duty as a child to your father comes first." A short chuckle. "So savor it. You don't get many chances."

Blue-grey eyes shone with unshed tears, and the young woman Dragon called Halcyonné gave a watery smile. She looked up at the moon again, as if looking to it for answers. A rough, familiar voice echoed in her head, filling her with words from a past that seemed so long ago. _'__You __know __I__'__ll __always __be __here, __waiting.__' '_After a long, quiet moment, she spoke up.

"Two years." She whispered, more to herself than to her leader. She turned to him now, a new, determined light in her eyes. "I'll visit him… in two years. It sounds rude, but he can wait. He said so anyways." She said indignantly, smiling a little. "I'll finish my assignment first. Then I'll visit him." The small smile bloomed into a smirk. "At least then, I'd have something to brag to him about—if he does come out of his grave."

The older man before her snorted derisively. "Suit yourself." He said, shaking his head. He turned back towards the balcony, and Halcyonné turned to leap down from it to the rocky depths below. Dragon shook his head again, sighing in exasperation.

"Show off." He muttered under his breath, but smiled all the same.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**I'm sorry that it's so short, I promise the next chapter will be longer. Trying to lengthen something that's not MEANT to be ruins it, after all. Plus, this is just the tiny prologue; I'll put in the good stuff for later. And stuff. :)**

**RnR please, thanks—may they be good or bad. Thanks in advance! :)**

**phoeniqx**


	2. I: Freebies or Baggage?

**CHAPTER I – FREEBIES OR BAGGAGE?**

Disclaimer: "I despise having to repeat the same thing over again" –Shino

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><p>Block upon block of shops, stalls and kiosks. Men and women filling up the streets, some milling about the shops, others jostling about carrying packages, crates, sacks andor bags. Children weaving between the obstacle course that were people's and animals' legs, stacked crates and boxes, bags and sacks piled up. Shouts of laughter and annoyances; hollers of prices and produce; light tones of an easy conversation; tight voices in the middle of haggling. It was barely morning but you could hear and feel it from over fifty miles away: Music. Rhythm. Life.

Market day.

Soft, spiky tufts of blond hair ruffled in the salty sea breeze, looking very much like a clump of golden seaweed dancing under the ocean's currents. Inquisitive, half-lidded cerulean orbs surveyed the scene, a small smile forming on full, droopy lips. There was a deep inhalation of air, a satisfied exhale and then came the low chuckles.

A young man dressed in nothing but a dark-blue vest and cargo pants had made its way over beside the captain, scratching his unkempt beard. He blinked rather uncertainly as he heard the man chuckling. "Somethin' funny, taichou?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

The other man turned to look at the asker, that trademark, mysterious little smirk on his face. "Not really," he replied smoothly, but he was still smiling. "Never mind me, Kaji, go." He insisted, tapping the man encouragingly on his shoulder. "You don't want the rest of your brothers starving now, do you?" he asked, turning as well to look at a dozen other men that had crowded a little behind him while he was chuckling like a complete nutcase five seconds ago.

Definitely not wanting to disobey captain's orders, the men straightened up and walked off in different directions. The first division commander slipped his hands into his pockets and walked off into the jungle of assorted merchandise, drinking in the scenery. He didn't really know why, but ever since Marco could remember, Market places (and Market Days, most especially) had this feel-good effect on him. They gave him a natural high, like how a good opponent would to a seasoned fighter; or mountain air to a hiker, or excellent sake to his dad. Every time he went to one—or in the case of market days, attended one—he'd find himself wandering about aimlessly, buying something interesting from a random stall, drowning in euphoria. He'd always be the last one to return to the ship. On more than one occasion, he had to be fetched from the marketplace.

No, he didn't want to be a merchant—he had poor haggling skills anyway. He was more than dedicated in his current occupation, thank you very much. It was just that, it was… fun, watching the marketplace. Granted, the place wasn't exactly glowing with rainbow colors (and Marco was glad it didn't, either), but then again which place did? No, what drew Marco to the marketplace was its energy. Marketplaces practically oozed with so much life and vigor it was hard not to get drawn.

So here he was now, walking down the narrow streets; passing stalls and shops in different shapes and sizes, each one bearing home to a specific theme of products. In the cooler, more shaded (and definitely larger) stalls, butchers displayed lean cuts of meat in every variety, hung in hooks or lined up in neat rows at tables—beef, pork, chicken, duck, fowl, pidgin, veal, venison, rabbit, sea monster, and on one particularly large stall, sea king. Some housed buckets, tanks and tables of fresh fish, crabs, lobsters, squid, octopi, and a dozen varieties of shellfish in different colors and shapes.

Other stalls were laden with sacks of grains in every color and shape imaginable; others housed pile upon pile of freshly grown produce—apples and grapes in varying shades of red and green, bright orange tangerines, furry brown kiwis, large, smooth watermelons, thick yellow bananas, spiky pineapples (Vista held one up from a distance and waved it tauntingly at him), baskets of glowing yellow and fresh green mangoes; bowls upon bowls of plump, juicy berries—blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, and a hundred others he wasn't really familiar with; bright red tomatoes bursting with flavor; bundles of leeks, string beans, artichokes, asparagus, celery; piles of watercress, seaweed and other edible aquatic plants; heads of cabbages and coconuts, crates of pumpkins, sacks of potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, and beets; trays of cucumbers and eggplants. A few of the fruit stalls had freshly made jams and/or marmalades of their sweet produce, some of the jars open and giving off the most invigorating scent.

Another stall was dominated by particularly dry products: sacks of peanuts, baskets of fresh and dried mushrooms in varying shades of brown and cream, jars of dried herbs lining a makeshift shelf—basil, marjoram, thyme, rosemary, cumin—their fresh counterparts still plotted on earthenware jars lined up by the bottom of the stall. Another shelf had jars of spices—cinnamon, vanilla, garlic, pepper, both ground and not.

Then there were the non-edible parts of the market, which, although not as appetizing, was equally interesting and packed with people. A little further down were stalls were apothecaries, their shops filled with jars of substances, powders and mixtures in eerie, questionable colors. On a more cheerful side, shops displayed buckets and wreaths of fresh flowers in a kaleidoscope of colors in different shades. There were stalls filled with souvenirs: necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings, fans, embroidered towels, makeshift toys, little rag dolls, pots in every size, frames, candles, candleholders, small pieces of furniture—it went on forever.

Others had more exquisite trinkets: lamps, chandeliers, drapes, rugs and carpets in varying textures and materials, vases, figurines, pillows, blankets, mattresses. Another was filled with metals and handmade weapons: spears, arrows, swords, daggers, blades in every imaginable shape, size and design. There were others with glass and ceramic pieces: jars, bottles, vases, glasses, mugs, plates and bowls. All the while, in between these stalls and shops, both man and animal occupied the streets.

Marco was most definitely in his happy place.

It wasn't like he was bored with the rest of the crew—that wasn't the case. The market and the crew gave him different kinds of happiness, that aren't comparable with one another in the first place. He continued to prowl along the streets, chancing upon one of his many brothers every once in a while and commenting on their purchases:

"Will this be for dinner tonight?"

"Pick some that doesn't look too red, too—so they can ripen a bit out at sea."

"Izo, it doesn't matter, get whatever color you think looks best with whatever coordination your room has…so long as—HEY I TOLD YOU NO VELVET, THAT'S TOO EXPENSIVE!"

"That won't last two days… then again we'd probably finish it before this day's over, so…"

"What happened to the 3000 bellis I gave you for your list?"

"…"

"Alright, next time I'm buying the sake, Haruta. Not you. Ever."

"Bring two more sacks to the ship, just to be on the safe side."

"Looks expensive. Put it back before you bre-" CRASH. "I'm taking that out of your personal budget."

"If you don't stop carving my face on that pineapple, Vista, I swear…"

"… *facepalm*"

And so on, and so forth.

Marco sighed a little as he watched Vista run off with the pineapple triumphantly back to the ship; the fifth division commander probably eager to share his fantastic, newfound carving skills with the rest of the crew, as another way to lighten up the mood. Nobody actually wants to admit it, but ever since the Battle at Marineford, a darker, more sullen aura had fallen upon the crew. Immediately two weeks after the event, Marco noticed small differences. Crewmates whispered about other crewmates, spats turned to scuffles, which turned to all out fights to the death.

_'Now that had been a particularly difficult night,_' the phoenix found himself thinking, as he peeled an apple aimlessly with a small knife. Jozu had just broken a fight between Kaji—one of the men under Marco's command—and Grant—one of Jozu's. Grant had accused Kaji of being responsible for the death of Shin—one of the men under Curiel's command—who had suffered at the hands of a group of marine soldiers back at the battle. Shin had died protecting Kaji.

"Look at us!" Marco had hollered angrily at them, his usually calm blue eyes glowing dangerously bright with a hundred emotions: anger, pity, exasperation, sorrow, regret, guilt… This had been the first time since the battle that the first division commander had raised his voice—in fact for the others, it was the first time he had actually raised his voice, ever. No one but the really tenure members of the crew knew the consequences that Marco's anger implied, but everyone knew enough not to make him angry. Everyone knew enough not to piss off any of the commanders.

The first division commander had sighed in exasperation, running his hand through his hair. "Is this how we honor the dead? How we honor the rules that Pops had made us swear our lives to?" he continued, in more subdued voice, yet the raw emotions still leaked from his voice. "It was nobody's fault. We all went to battle, to put our lives on the line even if we knew that there was but a sliver of a chance to get Ace back." He stared at the crew's weather-beaten faces, read the varying degrees of pain, humiliation and depression in their eyes.

"We are the Whitebeard pirates." He stated solemnly, stressing each syllable. It was no battle cry, but it had every effect of it. "Granted, this may be marked as the worst situation that we have ever faced. It's one thing to lose a member of the crew; it's a heartwrenching situation, but we try to manage. But when you lose a captain…" his voice tightened, and he cleared his throat, ducking his head and taking a deep, calming breath.

Marco stood up then, staring everyone down. "We _will_ get through this." He insisted, stressing on the second word with every ounce of strength he could put into it—like he wasn't just doing the pep talk for his brothers' sakes, but for his as well. Like he was convincing himself to believe that they really would. That _he_ would.

"All those men back there—Pops, Ace, Shin and everyone else—they didn't die so we could live to ruin each other's lives. They didn't die so we could backstab our own brothers, or sell them out or embarrass them. They died so we could live on to protect their will, and to fulfill the dreams that they are no longer capable of doing so. They died, and entrusted us to continue living for them."

"Is this how you presume they'd be living their lives had YOU died in their place?"

There was a general murmur of disagreement from the crew.

A small smirk graced Marco's face. "I didn't hear you, Whitebeard pirates."

"**NO!**" The entire crew exploded, eyes shining with unshed tears, fists and teeth clenched in agitation. Some had broken down and sobbed, others gripped their brother's hands firmly, faces red with emotion.

Marco's smirk widened as he gazed proudly at his brothers. "That's what I thought." He answered, giving a small nod of his head. Almost all at the same time, each face in the crew split into a wide grin of relief and another cheer erupted, shaking the ship to its core. In that one, glorious moment, it was as if nothing had happened—as if Pops had just cheered them all to battle and they had responded to his voice. Marco almost turned around to share one of his smug expressions with Ace; to join in with Pops' infectious, trademark gruff laughs. Then he remembered…

They weren't there anymore.

He felt a heavy weight dropping onto his stomach and Marco swallowed, taking another calming breath. For one breathtaking millisecond, the darkness threatened to consume him and it took all of his strength to tell himself that it wasn't true. Pops and Ace and everyone else were there—they always will. They weren't such unreliable men to leave their crew in distraught. The dead would continue to live on in the lives of those who were left to live. Marco truly believed in that; he had carved that into his very being ever since that day. Because what else would there be left to believe in? Either way he would not succumb to the sadness and neither will he allow his brothers to do so. They will fight it off, conquer it—just like what they did with all their enemies in the past.

So far they haven't completely recovered—he doubted they ever truly will recover completely—but they've managed to hold off the darkness at bay. Baby steps, Haruta had told them, giving them all a watery smile. One baby step at a time. So they held small celebrations for anything worth celebrating. They made fun of the teensiest things, and cracked jokes at almost every possible moment. If one showed even the slightest signs of slipping into that dark void of depression, the entire crew pulled him back. Sadness didn't stand a chance.

Looking back, they had made quite the progress and it was nice to look back on: which was why Marco had thought that it was time to step it up a notch by doing what seemed impossible two years ago—hold a celebration on the Battle of Marineford's anniversary, where Pops and Ace was buried.

It had been Blamenco who had brought it up, telling Marco of the idea offhandedly during one of their many conversations. A few months ago, when the sixth division commander had brought it up, it had seemed such a blasphemous act. But as the days rolled by, it made more sense—not just to him but to the other members of the crew that he had told about. It wasn't a celebration of their crewmates' and captains' death; rather, it was a celebration of their perseverance in life despite the struggle that their dearly beloved had posed. It didn't take long for the rest of the crew to anticipate this gathering of sorts; after all the celebration would be, in a sense, a test of how much they had managed their grief, and if they can manage it after all.

Everyone loves a challenge.

Grinning slightly, Marco quickened his lazy, dragging walk to a more upbeat pace as he noticed the sun slowly reaching the zenith. They had to leave the island before noon if they wanted to reach Pops and Ace's resting place in time for the anniversary. No time for the others to scour about the marketplace and look for him. Besides, he was ready to be that Vista was waiting for him in order to fully emphasize on the rest of the crew "how life-like and realistic" his carving skills were. The rather hurried but evenly-placed steps shortened until Marco broke into a small jog, hurrying a little as he saw the ship looming closer with every step.

As he arrived he found that most of the men who had gone on grocery duties had returned, though most of the purchases were still on the deck and haven't been arranged in the storage compartments below. He shook his head and sighed in exasperation as he watched one of the men chase after a live chicken that had managed to break free from the woven basket that had been holding it.

"Pick up the pace everyone, we need to make a move on." He reminded, passing one of the bags of purchases over to Namur, who was helping arrange the items down in the storage compartments. Blond eyebrows furrowed in confusion, however, when the phoenix made a quick head count of the commanders and found Jozu missing.

He turned to ask the nearest brother when the devil himself appeared, carrying a particularly large sack behind his back. "Got us mangoes," he said, cheerily—at least, as cheerily as Jozu can manage—though something in his eyes told Marco there was more to this sack. "It initially weighed around a hundred kilograms, but maybe the merchant decided to be kind and add a couple extra kilos before I left." He said nonchalantly, to which most of the crew answered with a delighted cheer of "Freebies!". The first division commander nodded his head ever so slightly to the side, indicating that Jozu bring the sack on over to the center of the deck.

"Bring it there, beside the others." He said nonchalantly, but the rest of the crew—at least, the more seasoned ones—managed to pick up what Marco and Jozu were planning. Jozu set the sack down on the deck then backed up as most of the men from the crew closed in, some drawing their weapons.

Jozu's eyes glinted with malice. "Dig in, boys." He said, smirking. The men jumped on the sack all at the same time, and that was when Marco sensed that something seemed wrong.

There was a whirlwind of shredded sack material, mango peelings and weapons flying off in every direction. Five seconds later, nearly three-fourths of the men had fallen, sustaining cuts and stabs, bruises and dislocated joints. In the middle of the semi-carnage, a black hooded figure knelt, the smallest wisps of curly, light blue hair peeking from under the hood. Slowly, as the figure stood up, Marco tensed his muscles, his droopy eyes narrowing as he heard the figure chuckle.

"Surprise, I guess," the figure said quietly, looking up to face the rest of the men—most of who had given a little gasp. The hood fell back, revealing the face of a rather young woman with a rather long length of pale blue, messy curls. She smiled a little, her intelligent, blue-grey eyes sweeping over the crew before landing to rest on Marco and Jozu's figures. Her smile widened as she addressed Jozu's gaze, who, being Jozu, scowled back.

The woman cocked her head slightly to one side, her face still directed at Jozu, when her eyes swiveled to Marco, fixing him with a rather amused stare. "I must thank you for the mangoes. They were wonderfully sweet," she said earnestly, which more or less intensified the tone of mockery it brought with it. "You have a very experienced shopper right here." She said, her gaze returning to Jozu's forever frowning face.

"As grateful as I am to you for feeding me, there is one other request I must ask," the young woman said pleasantly, clasping her hands carelessly behind her back, completely indifferent to the intensity of the gazes the entire crew was giving her. She turned to stare intently at Marco now, the polite smile turning into a small smirk.

Marco raised one eyebrow. "And what would that be, dear guest?" he asked politely, his face remaining impassive even as most of his brothers snickered in glee. The young woman herself gave a small chuckle, then abruptly gave him another piercing look, her blue-grey eyes hardening into something like sea stone, that polite smile still on her lips.

"Bring me to Whitebeard's grave."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**Right, so it's done, finally! Stupid author is stupid-I lost the file so I had to rewrite things all over again. I hope you guys like this one as it's longer... I also had fun describing the market place. Teehee. At one point of my typing it up I actually got particularly hungry. HAHA. :D Working on the second one as of the moment and planning to put it up soon-ish. IDK. I owe you guys. This should've been up last week. :(**

**In any case, thanks so much to those who read, more so to those who took an effort to review. It's nice to see that your stories are being viewed, but it's better to hear criticism, you know? Because it means that people actually made an effort to read it. :3 Reviews are important, after all. But thanks to everyone all the same~ 3**

**Just as a heads up, the story's also posted in my DA account, just mosey on over to .com/gallery/ . While you're at it maybe you can add me up? Bahaha~ :3**

**All my love~**

**phoeniqx**


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